Killing Judge
by Spaz350
Summary: Anderson and Iscariot must stop an ancient Vampire from turning NYC into hell on earth. Please Read and Review. Chapter Two up.
1. Genesis

  
_Alright, so this is my first fanfic, all apologies if it sucks. I got tired of seeing Alucard rule the Hellsing boards, so I decided to give Anderson, my favorite character, a little more facetime. Thus, you won't see or hear anything about the Hellsing Organization in this pre-anime fic, it's all Iscariot, all the time! Reviews appreciated_

Disclaimer:  I don't own Hellsing, and I'm not sure who does, so there.  


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_**Chapter One: Genesis**_

"In the beginning," intoned the dark man, illuminated by flickering candlelight. "God created Eden, and the first flora and fauna. He created the first man and woman, and the Tree of knowledge. His creations, however, were not perfect. Man and woman were weak, and fell prey to the first predator. That first hunter was the serpent, the one creature not created by God, but by his fallen soldier Lucifer out of rage at imprisonment." The dark man paused, letting his gaze rise from the tattered book in his hands to drift over the eager faces of his audience. They were completely absorbed by his words, by his reading of the book. They would make good followers, even if only as eventual fodder. Perhaps a few would be worthy of more than that, the dark man mused. After a moment of pregnant silence, he returned to his reading.

"The fallen angel knew that he might never gain the realm of heaven or even earth, but he could still salve his pain with the suffering of those who inhabited those planes. So he created the serpent, the first being with a mind for malice, and set it upon Adam and Eve. The serpent, at the cost of eternal punishment and humiliation, was able to fulfill its designs and have the humans expelled from Paradise. For years, the Fallen One was satisfied with the suffering he had wrought with the creation of the act of Betrayal. Before long, however, he began to desire more pain and anguish. Through dreams and doubts, he placed the seed of anger into Cain's mind, the seed that would spawn the Act of Murder. Once again, the Fallen One's plans were successful, and Cain was cursed by God to wander the earth in agony. The Fallen One wallowed in Cain's despair, thoroughly pleased at the pain promised to Cain and his descendants. But He was not done with Cain."

The dark man once again paused and let his eyes fall upon those before him. Many of them had heard all of this before, several times. He had been reading them the scriptures of the Fallen for weeks now, and they had begun to memorize many of the passages. Tonight would be different, however, he thought. Tonight would mark the first night of their true discovery, their true calling. The mere thought of what was to come brought the ghost of a smile to the dark man's sallow face. Tonight would be fun.

"As Cain became more and more desperate with his new life, the Fallen One revealed himself to him in a dream, promising power in exchange for allegiance. Cain agreed, and became the first to receive the No Life King's blessing, the first vampire. He would be the first of many, the agent who would be the weapon of the Fallen One, who would cause unimaginable pain and fear for his master to enjoy. Those who followed God believed Cain to be dead or banished to a faraway land and summarily wrote him out of their holy texts. Unbeknownst to them, however, Cain never left them, he was only much changed by the gifts bestowed upon him, the true Mark of Cain. His descendants and progeny, vampires all, would become spread to all corners of the Earth, seeking to cause more and more pain for their patron god, Lucifer, the No Life King. Their bloodlines, though much diluted by millennia, persist in some of today's undead. These modern nosferatu, though powerful in their own right, are but mere shadows of their ancestors."

The dark man closed the book and set it down on the candlelit table beside him. The others in the room began to glance around at their fellows. That particular bit of scripture had been read to them countless times before, and had always ended with the same phrase, about modern vampires. A few began chanting softly, believing the sermon to be over. The dark man's voiced boomed out suddenly, silencing the room in a heartbeat. With a slight grin, the dark man resumed his preaching, to the amazement of those assembled.

"One particular bloodline of note, however, does not exist today. It is the bloodline of one of Cain's first victims, a man named Zacharias. This bloodline seemed to have died out in the 10th century, its last descendant a powerful vampire who went by the name of Balthazar. Balthazar was truly a vampire of legend, having lived for nearly twelve hundred years. Recovered texts have referred to him as "The Unholy", "Scourge of All Life", and "The Defiler", amongst other titles. He was said to have bathed in the blood of kings and to have devoured the souls of his subjects. Those who followed him claimed that he took particular pleasure in slaughtering men of the cloth, and that he held God in contempt. None of these claims have been substantiated, however, as the texts concerning Balthazar are few. Those who were close enough to him to actually know him died by his hand long before they could write their praises of him. In his time, he seemed to be untouchable, by man or God."

The people assembled before the dark man gazed up at him in rapt attention. There was something different they sensed in the dark man. His moves were more stylized than usual, his words ringing out with uncommon clarity and energy. Something clearly had him agitated, and what agitated one so powerful as the dark man would definitely affect them.

"Zacharias' bloodline is said to have died out because, after a millennia of unlife, its final son, Balthazar disappeared. There was no mention of his death, or of anything concerning his sudden absence. It was simply as if he were there one day and gone the next, never to be seen again. Other vampires who had known him investigated his disappearance, but could find no evidence of his whereabouts. So, time rolled on without Balthazar, and his name was soon lost in a mire of history, a speck of dust in the desert."

The dark man paused again, letting the silence settle over the small, candlelit room. He breathed in deeply, savoring the near-palpable air of tension. Then, after a moment, he leaned forward into the light, a dangerous light in his eyes. He grinned, like a carnival attendant before revealing the most hideous freak in his show.

"Balthazar is not dead," the dark man whispered, drawing gasps and looks of shock from his listeners. "Nor is he lost." The dangerous light in the dark man's eyes flashed, becoming a wild look of exultation. His teeth, long and sharp, glinted in the candlelight as he spoke, his voice rising and intensifying. "He is yet among us, in this very city. This very night, Balthazar the Ancient, The Scourge of All Life, walks the streets. He is coming here, coming for his truest followers. His time will soon be upon us, when we will offer up the dying screams of a thousand victims as a sacrifice to the No Life King. He allowed us to find him, and we will help bring about the ultimate suffering!"

The dark man, the vampire Ambrose Fletcher, lunged fully into the candlelight, euphoric in the midst of his sermon. All around him, dozens of his followers, human and vampire alike, chanted feverishly to their God, the Fallen One, in thanks for this Balthazar, this new savior and champion of suffering. Hundreds of feet above them, above the abandoned subway tunnels Fletcher and his cult called home, the city of New York slept, blissfully unaware of the shadow that would soon descend over it.

* * *

St. Michael's closed early that night. Not for any abnormal reasons, only that even with the meager furnace keeping the building heated, the frigid New York winter was more than enough to convince even the most dedicated parishioners to forgo the evening's Mass for the warmer comfort of their own homes. Father Caleb Ross couldn't blame them, of course. He didn't enjoy saying the Mass on one of these icy nights any more than they enjoyed listening to them. If it were up to him, he mused, checking the deadbolt on the front doors of the Church one last time for the night, Masses on nights like these would be shortened to a Eucharist and the sermon only. He chuckled to himself, blew on his hands to warm them, and then sighed heavily, looking up at the stained-glass window above the doors, already beginning to frost over in the cold air. Actually, if it were up to him, he thought, he'd have the Church closed down for a few weeks to put in a better furnace and to re-insulate the whole building, make it more hospitable and welcoming to those who would seek shelter on nights such as this.

He shook his head as he turned from the locked doors, and began walking down the snowy sidewalk. Of course, the Parish would need some real money before such repairs could be afforded, and that didn't appear as if it would happen any time soon. Father Ross had an unshakeable faith in God, but he also considered himself enough of a realist to understand the situation at hand. St. Michael's was close to being shut down for good. It had no money coming in to support itself, and without the ability to use that money to pay for maintenance that might bring people back, it was only a matter of time before the doors closed for the last time. It filled Ross with a great sadness, but the Church that he had grown up in was dying a slow death.

Ross trudged down the snowy street, arms tightly crossed over his chest to block out the cold. The streets were usually quiet at night in this neighborhood, but never this silent. The lightly falling snow seemed to muffle out the sounds of the world, save for the crunch of his own footsteps in the snow and the buzzing hum of the streetlamps overhead. He loved these nights in spite of the cold, he realized. Nights like these, when the snow on the street kept traffic to a minimum, were among the only times when the city seemed at peace. No hustle, no bustle, just cold, white, and silent. It was beautiful.

As he rounded a corner, seven or eight blocks from the church, a new noise rang out to shatter the peace of the snowy night. A scream, a woman's scream. Father Ross looked around wildly, trying to discern the direction of the scream. Perhaps he could help this poor soul. He finally located the source, the entrance to the old subway station. He jogged over to the downward-leading stairs as best he could over the snowy terrain. He slowed as he neared the stairs, and began to descend quietly. He was just about to call down, ask if everyone was alright, when he heard a new voice below him, at the bottom of the stairs, a male voice. Father Ross stopped and listened, heart racing. "Scream all you want, bitch, ain't nobody gonna come help you! Matter of fact, KEEP screaming! Keeps your heart pounding out that blood, makes it that much hotter and sweeter!"

The woman seemed to have no trouble fulfilling the man's wishes. She screamed again, her shrill voice echoing up the stairwell and out into the cold night. The man laughed, and taunted her again. "Don't know why you're so freaked anyway. All I did was ask for a drink. At least you don't have to pay the bartender for this," he sneered. A new voice joined in suddenly, startling Father Ross. "Just get it over with, idiot! All the screaming is just going to attract attention."

"So fucking what?" the first voice scoffed loudly, over the woman's screams. "Who cares about attracting attention? I'm having fun! Besides, it's not like anybody's gonna be able to help her if they do hear. Jeez, lighten up, Matt. You're ruining the mood."

"You may not care about attention, Scud, but Fletcher does, and you know it, " snarled the second voice. "And the last thing we want is Fletcher up our asses, all because you wanted your damned fun." The woman continued to scream.

This Matt, in Father Ross's opinion, seemed like the smarter of the two. His voice had an air of sophistication, like he knew he was better than the crime he was committing, cold and uncaring. The first voice seemed younger, almost teenage. That one, Scud, sounded like a thug, and little else.

"Aw hell, you're right," Scud sighed. "I fucking hate it when you're right, you know, you're no fun. Oh, well, " he said, malice creeping into his voice. "I guess it's time for that drink, eh bitch?" The woman gave one last shriek, long and piercing, then abruptly stopped. Atop the stairs, Ross made the Sign of the Cross and mumbled a silent prayer.

Father Ross crept silently down the first couple of stairs, hoping to at the very least get a good enough look at the muggers to provide the police with a good description. He kneeled as quietly as he could, and peered down at the subway station's platform. He had to quickly clamp his hand over his mouth to suppress his rising gorge at what he saw. Two men stood over the corpse of the young woman, both with faces and chests covered with fresh blood. The woman's corpse lay in a rapidly-spreading pool of blood, which seemed to have originated from her neck, which was savagely torn open. Even from a distance, Father Ross could tell that her throat, along with a large chunk of flesh, had been completely ripped out. The older of the two men, most likely Matt, was using the fingernail of his right pinky to pick something out of his bloodstained teeth. Ross stifled a gasp at the sight of Matt's teeth. They were oversized and wickedly pointed, to the extent that Ross could only label them as fangs. The younger one, Scud, calmly licked blood from his fingers, and laughed.

"For such a skinny little, bitch, she sure tastes good, eh Matt? Usually the skinny ones are so damned underfed they taste spoiled."

Matt finished picking his teeth, and spat out what looked to be a ragged chunk of skin. "She was quite tasty, my friend. I once again must thank the Fallen One for blessing you with such a good eye for taste." He chuckled and smiled, a sight that, when coupled with his bloodstained face, Father found deeply disturbing. "Let's head out of here, Scud. I've had my fill for the night."

"What about leftovers?" the younger man chortled.

"Leave the body, " Matt said, turning and walking toward the subway tunnel's entrance. "Either she'll be a ghoul soon enough, or the rats will dispose of our trash for us. Now come on, I think Fletcher wants us all to be there when Balthazar arrives."

"Yeah, yeah," spat Scud, following his friend into the tunnel, leaving the ghastly scene behind them.

Father Ross sat on the stairs until their voices had long since died out, unmoving and trying to comprehend what he had just witnessed. Once had collected his wits and made sure the two men had gone, he stumbled back up the stairs and out into the snowy night. Without a word, he walked back the way he'd come, back toward St. Michael's.

_Blood_, he thought. _So much blood… They had it on their faces… talking about the taste… the tall one's teeth… bloody. Did they drink it? Drink her blood? _He stumbled down the sidewalk, oblivious to his surroundings. He could not erase the sight from his mind, the sight of the long, sharp, bloodstained teeth. _Why would they drink her blood? Cannibals… psychopaths… why? Who drinks blood for fun?_

A final thought dawned on Father Caleb Ross as he reached the doors of St. Michael and began fumbling numbly with the key, cutting like an icy blade through his mind. _Vampires…_

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_I know this chapter starts kinda slowly, and has a noted abscence of Anderson and Iscariot, but don't worry, everyone's favorite priest shows up next chapter. Lata!


	2. Stories Told

Well, here's chapter 2! I got kinda stuck working on one character, hopefully it won't take me so long to write chapter 3! Disclaimer - I don't own Hellsing, and I don't now who does. So There!

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Father Ross staggered into the Church, slamming the doors behind him and locking them. He wandered down the center aisle, then slumped down into a nearby pew. He stared straight ahead, though he remained oblivious to his surroundings. His mind still swam with the hellish sight he had just witnessed. He tried to shut his eyes, to block out the images. Images of blood, images of a woman lying in a pool of blood on a dirty subway platform. Images of two men, soaked in blood and laughing. Again, that word rose unbidden to his mind. _Vampires…_ But it couldn't be vampires, could it? Vampires didn't really exist, they were just legends! Weren't they?

He shook his head violently, trying to forcibly expel the visions from his mind. He looked up, finally taking note of where he was. The crucifix in the front of the church loomed up before him. He stared hard at it, trying to get ahold of himself, to draw strength from his faith. _Dear God_, he thought. _Tell me I'm just in shock. Tell me I'm just jumping to wild conclusions. They can't be vampires, can they? Would You allow such blasphemy to exist, to live amongst Your creation? They can't have been vampires, I'm just in shock. Please, Lord, tell me I'm not crazy._ Ross stared intently at the crucifix, hands gripping the pew in front of him so tightly they ached. No answer came, no divine sign. Ross sighed. He had faith that God had heard his desperate prayer, but he had not actually expected a response. Such was the relationship between God and His followers. The people prayed, but God rarely let His voice be heard. God's will came through the actions of others, of those who believed in Him. Still, despite the knowledge that God had heard him, Ross still felt no relief. He needed someone to talk to, someone who would not only listen, but would respond in kind.

He knew someone who would listen to him, who would help him sort through what had happened. He stood slowly and made his way down the aisle of the church, toward the Sacristy in the back. He still could not remove the visions of blood and the two men from his mind, but at least, after his brief conversation with God, he wasn't seeing only those sights. Actions needed to be taken, regardless of his views on who – or what – the murderers were. The police needed to be notified, for one thing. First, however, he would make another call, to a friend.

Making his way to the Sacristy, Father Ross picked up a phone and sat down on a nearby stool, still trembling slightly. He dialed the number, then waited a moment while the phone rang. A moment later, someone answered, and a woman's voice came.

_"St. Bartholomew's Church, Marie speaking."_

"Marie, it's Father Ross, of St. Michael's. I know it's late, but is the Archbishop still there? I apologize, but it's urgent."

_"Yes, Father Ross, Archbishop Daniels is in, but he's getting ready to leave. Are you sure this can't wait until tomorrow morning?"_

"I'm sorry, but it can't wait. I need to speak to the Archbishop immediately, please," Ross said, desperation beginning to creep back into his voice at the thought of being deprived of the listening ear he so badly needed.

_"Very well, I'll get him. Can I put you on hold for a moment?"_

"Of course. Thank you very much, Marie. I really appreciate it," Ross breathed, nearly collapsing on the stool in relief. The Archbishop would hear him, help him get his wits back together. The Archbishop would be able to advise him, would tell him that he was just in shock, that there were no vampires. There was a brief pause, and for a moment, "Amazing Grace" played over the phone's receiver. Then, a man's voice came on.

_"Yes, Father Ross? I understand this is an urgent matter. What is it, my son?"_ The Archbishop's voice, though tired, seemed at once doting and mildly irritated, like a parent reassuring a frightened child that had just woken from a nightmare.

"Archbishop Daniels, I have just witnessed something terrible! I have seen murder!"

_"Murder? What are you talking about, my son? What did you see?" _ The Archbishop's voice suddenly lost all traces of fatigue.

"Walking home from the Church tonight," Ross said, relieved to finally be able to speak on what he had seen. "I heard screams coming from a subway station nearby. I went over, hoping that I could help in some way. When I got to the station, even before I could go down the stairs, I heard voices."

_"Voices? What sort of voices?"_

"Two men, one younger and one older."

_"And what did these voices say?"_

"The younger one was taunting the woman he was about to kill. He talked about the taste of her blood, and laughed. The other one sounded more businesslike. He said something about someone coming, someone important, from the sound of it. Then, they killed her."

_"And you saw them kill her? How did she die?"_

"No, Archbishop, I didn't see them kill her. I heard her scream, and then I crept far enough down the stairs to see without them seeing me." Ross was picking up speed now, letting the words flow from him in a quickening flood. "She was laying on the ground. Her throat had been torn out, there was blood everywhere! And they were laughing, Archbishop! They were laughing! They were both standing over her with blood all over their faces and laughing about how she had tasted! And their teeth! They were huge and sharp, like fangs! Archbishop, I think they tore her throat out with their teeth! Like… like…" Ross's voice trailed off, horrified once more.

_"Like what? What are you trying to say, my son?" _The Archbishop's voice was tense.

Ross didn't immediately reply. There it was, that damnable word again, that impossible word. _Vampires_. He stared straight ahead, nearly dropping the phone from his trembling hands.

_"Like what? Father Ross, are you still there?"_

"Like Vampires," Father Ross whispered. "They tore her throat out with their teeth like vampires. But that can't be, can it, Archbishop? Vampires don't exist! They can't exist, can they? They're just myth, right?"

_"Who did they say was coming, Father Ross? Who did they think was so important?"_

"They said something about someone named Balthazar coming, but I don't see why that's so important! Father, these people, these murderers, what do I tell the police? Should I just call 911 and tell them what I saw? They couldn't have been vampires, could they?"

_"No, my son. Do not call the police yet. I want you to stay at St. Michael's tonight. Sleep in the Sacristy. It may not be safe outside."_

"W-What? Archbishop, I don't understand. Why shouldn't I call the police, I know I'm supposed to –"

_"Just do as I have asked, Father Ross. God be with you."_

And then the Archbishop hung up, leaving Father Ross even more confused and frightened than he had been when he called.

* * *

Ambrose Fletcher sat alone in his private quarters, the small ramshackle room his acolytes had built for him in the tunnels. It wasn't much more than four walls, a moldy bed, and a battered wooden chair, but to the people who had built it, it was a palace. A cult devoted to the mysteries of the No Life King, the group had long since abandoned the streets above, populated by the pathetic humans they believed to be weaklings. The surface was a place of falsehood, where men made empty prayers to a God that they did not care for. People above did not understand true devotion, did not understand the giving of oneself to a higher cause or power. Every day, the people above unknowingly paid tribute to the Fallen One with their lies and deceit, their everyday malice. Their petty cruelties and crimes were numerous, but without purpose. They were squealing infants who broke their toys for fun and blamed others. They practiced the art of suffering that so pleased the Fallen One, but they did so for their own gain. They were ignorant of the fact that all they had gained in the world was through force and violence, and they ignored he who taught them to use such weapons.

Ambrose Fletcher had been the first of them to see this. He had been the first to rediscover the ancient texts that gave the No Life King his due praise, and spoke of his favored children, the vampires. He had been the first to condemn the actions of man. He had search out those of like mind, to tell them of what he had learned. Together, they agreed to abandon the world above. They left their lives as humans behind to take up new lives as servants of Lucifer. They fled downward, into the tunnels below the city. After weeks of searching, they had finally found shelter, an abandoned subway tunnel far from the functional tunnels. There, under Fletcher's guidance, they waited, offering their very lives to the No Life King. Some had died in the months and years since. Others ascended, having left the tunnels in search of the vampires they viewed as holy, and returned bitten and turned, transformed into that most holy creature. Again, Ambrose Fletcher had been the first of them to ascend to vampires, but like the rest of his followers, he was still weak. A half-blood, a bitten and turned human, could never reach the status of a true nosferatu, whom they regarded as saints. Still, though their vampiric numbers grew, they yet waited for the next sign from their Fallen Lord.

Fletcher sat in his darkened quarters, a gift from his followers, and thought about how that sign was soon coming. After years and years of poring through the holy texts he had found, he had composed a bloodline, a sort of Nosferatu family tree. He utilized all of his followers to track down every precious bit of information he could about the pureblooded vampires, in the hopes that he could locate one's present location. He burned with the desire to learn from a true vampire. He wanted to better know the ways of the favored children, so he could better please his beloved Lord. He wanted to learn the true ways of the Sacrament of Suffering, to become a pureblood, to become a true servant of the No Life King.

And now, after years of searching, he had succeeded. He had found Balthazar, a true pureblooded Nosferatu. Fletcher traveled many hours to meet the legendary Balthazar, and pledged with life to the vampire. Balthazar, to Fletcher's amazement, offered to come to New York, to the subways, to teach Fletcher's cult. The ancient vampire, because of their devotion to the No Life King, had deemed them worthy of his tutelage, and told Fletcher to return home. He instructed Fletcher to continue praying to the Fallen One with his cult, and that when Balthazar saw fit to come, Fletcher would see his sign.

Then barely a week ago, Fletcher had awoken to see a message scrawl itself in blood on the wall of his quarters. Balthazar, the Scourge of All Life, was coming, and Fletcher had seven days to make ready. Six full days of quiet preparation had led to the past night, when he told his acolytes of Balthazar's imminent arrival. The reaction was as he had expected – utter jubilation. A true Nosferatu was coming, they would all become his disciples. No greater boon could be asked. The seventh day had passed without incident, and Fletcher had assembled the cult once more, then gone into his quarters to wait for the sign. Even now, they waited silently outside in the tunnels, deep in reverential prayer to the Fallen One.

Ambrose Fletcher sat alone in the dark, staring up at the wall before him through half-closed eyes. Suddenly, the wall began to bleed, thick, viscous crimson leaking from the rotted timbers. Fletcher's eyes shot open, and he dropped to he knees, head deeply bowed. Above him, the blood flowed up from the floor and down from the ceiling, mingling before the man's tear-stained face and forming shining letters. "I come."

* * *

Deep within St. Peter's Basilica in Vatican City, in a small office hidden in the Cathedral's lowest basement, a phone rang. Sitting atop a very ornately carved mahogany desk, the phone rang again before a man answered. The man, tall and thin, with piercing green eyes and a long silvery ponytail, idly flipped the pages of a large timeworn bible as he listened to the man on the other end. It was a low-level brother working in the Vatican's Public Relations department. Apparently, some American Archbishop was on hold, distraught and demanding to talk with a Cardinal about some "grave danger".

_"Shall I patch him through, Cardinal Maxwell?"_

Cardinal Enrico Maxwell, head of the Vatican's Section XIII, the Iscariot Organization, merely sighed and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. It was probably just another minor scare, some rogue half-vampire setting up shop in some backwater town, as always. No matter, he'd still deal with it.

"Yes, Brother Mario, put him through, and hold any other calls to me."

_"Yes, sir."_

There was a brief pause and a slight crackle of static as the American Archbishop was connected. Cardinal Maxwell stifled another sigh, and spoke.

"This is Cardinal Enrico Maxwell. How may I assist you?"

The man at the other end sounded distraught.

_"Father, thank you for taking my call. I was instructed many years ago to call for you if such an incident occurred."_

Maxwell rubbed at his temple. Just like all the others, indeed.

"This is Archbishop Stephen Daniels, of the New York City Archdiocese, is it not?"

_"Yes, Father."_

"Very good. Now, Archbishop Daniels, what type of incident are you referring to?"

_"Vampires, Cardinal Maxwell. I know it sounds far-fetched, but I believe that we have at least two vampires loose in New York. I would never have believed it if I hadn't been warned during my appointment as an Archbishop. They told me that these… things… exist, and that we were to call the Vatican immediately if I became aware of one."_

Maxwell began thumbing through his Bible again. He had carried out this same conversation so many times he barely registered the words being spoken.

"Rightly so, and you are to be commended for your punctuality. What makes you believe you have encountered two such creatures?"

_"A priest in my Archdiocese, Father Caleb Ross, witnessed two of them murdering a young woman by tearing out her throat with their teeth."_

"I see. Did they say anything, or was this Father Ross too far away to hear them?"

_"Yes, Cardinal. Father Ross said that he heard them laughing about the taste of the woman's blood, and of someone important coming. I believe Father Ross said the name was Balthazar or something like that."_

Cardinal Enrico Maxwell's eyes opened in a flash, and his hand fell idly to the desk, the Bible forgotten. This wasn't like the others after all. In fact, this really was every bit as urgent as the hapless Archbishop believed it to be. Of course, Maxwell had studied enough of the vampires' heathen texts to recognize the name Balthazar. _Could it be_, he thought, _a true Nosferatu? A true demon? _ He spoke again, fighting to keep his voice composed. After all, better to not alarm the Archbishop of the true danger his archdiocese was in.

"Very well. Where is this Father Ross now?"

_"He is sleeping in his parish, as I told him to do. I did not want to put him in danger."_

"Excellent. You did right to tell him so, Archbishop Daniels. I shall send a detachment to you and Father Ross by tomorrow evening. Until then, instruct Father Ross to stay in his Church and to close it until further notice. You and Father Ross are never to speak of this event, this conversation, or of the detachment, is that understood?"

_"Yes, Father, and thank you."_

"Very good. God be with you, Archbishop."

With that, Cardinal Maxwell abruptly hung up. He sat there for a moment, steepling his fingers in front of his face and staring at the open Bible on the desk in front of him. _Father_, he prayed. _If this truly is one of Satan's favored flock, let our power not fail to destroy it. Give us your strength, O King of Kings._ He sat silently for another moment, then reached back to his phone. He dialed, and waited for the brother at the other end to pick up.

_"Yes, Cardinal Maxwell?"_

"Put in a call to St. Patrick's Orphanage in Dublin. Get me Father Anderson."

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There you have it, folks, Chapter 2's a wrap! I know, I promised Anderson in this chapter, but this one was getting longer than I liked as is. So, stay tuned for next chapter, in which I WILL debut both Anderson and Balthazar! 


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